Ab Initio
by Persephoniii
Summary: An incident near Lake Verity leaves an agnostic Paul questioning truths…and what he THOUGHT was reality. Because sometimes Pokémon aren’t just animals, and sometimes universes really ARE created by a single Pokémon… A Paul/Shinji fic.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon.

_"Look not into the Pokémon's eyes. In but an instant, you will have no recollection of who you are._

_Return home, but how? When there is nothing to remember?_

_Dare not touch the Pokémon's body. In but three short days, all emotions will drain away._

_Above all, above all, harm not the Pokémon. In a scant five days, the offender will grow immobile in entirety..."_

_-A Horrific Myth_

:Chapter One:

It was endless, the darkness.

It stretched for miles. Silent darkness. _Deathly silent_. His breath came in hard, ragged pants. He could smell the forest around him, the sharp resin of the mountain pines, the damp soil beneath him, and the vague scent of sweat…_his_ sweat. But scent, he found, was the _only_ thing he was conscious of. He couldn't feel his body, couldn't see, couldn't _move_…

And yet, it was more than simple paralysis; His body was alive, wired and alert, even _if_ he was unable to move. His pulse raced, mind spinning with uncontrolled possibilities before a random thought bloomed within his mind.

Animals_. _

_Pokémon_.

They reacted similarly in battles, sometimes. Their limbs locked, they no longer heard commands, no longer were even conscious of the trainer _being_ there, so frozen were they by the predator before them—

_Predator_.

Everything happened very fast, then. He felt the eyes on him, the pulsing sharp eyes of _it, _of this unnamed predator which he couldn't see, but that his instincts screamed was there. How had he ever missed it? Those eyes were piercing; he couldn't feel his body but he could feel _its_ gaze, sharp and cold, stabbing into him. He took a breath, trying to calm his racing heart. The logical thing…the _smart_ thing to do would be to stay calm, to _not move_. To keep still, like his body, apparently, had unconsciously forced him into doing. He would stay calm, he wouldn't panic, he refused to panic, not over some petty _animal_, at least. He was above such things.

Still….his breath came in short gasps, as though there were a vice over his lungs, and his eyes…he couldn't _see_ for some reason…

And just as suddenly he realized that his eyes were _closed_, squeezed tightly shut, and so secure that his face was beginning to hurt. A flash of annoyance cut through his anxiousness – how could he _not_ realize that he'd shut his eyes? – But a moment later the annoyance was forgotten, and he was opening his eyes, slowly, carefully, as to not startle whatever animal had cornered him. He was trying to will his body into moving, trying to think of the most convenient way to reach his Pokébelt once he was _able_ to move without upsetting the thing, and wondering which of his Pokémon would fare the best against…well, he had yet to even see the thing, but—

_Don't open your eyes!_

The command whirled like a breeze through his consciousness, and he stiffened, hesitated, going tense. _Had he..?_ But no, it had to have been his imagination, that voice. His mind was trying to protect him; it was an obvious reaction to fear, much as he loathed to admit such a weakness. And…

…who was _he_ to need protection? If his face weren't frozen, it would have fallen into a dark scowl. He'd been in worse situations before. Why should this one be any different? But something felt wrong, his heart continued to race, and a bead of sweat dropped into his closed eye. If he was going to get out of this one, he needed to see what he was fighting, needed to face whatever it was that was affecting his body. He had never been one to run away from anything, human and _especially_ not Pokémon. Resolved, he opened his eyes.

_Keep your eyes SHUT!_

This time a sharp pain accompanied the voice, cutting through him like a knife, and his body was suddenly on fire; hot. Scorching. _Burning_ through his chest. He couldn't help what he did next; his body had chosen that moment to unlock, and unbidden his hands flew to his throbbing head, and even as he was falling to his knees, even as he was clutching his head, he knew that moving was the worst possible thing he could have done.

The screeching roar was the only warning he got before it was on him.

oOo

He woke up screaming.

His body was tangled uncomfortably amidst the sheets of the bed, fingers digging painfully into the mattress below him. Beside the bed, right next to his ear, the rings of the telephone screeched, eerily reminiscent to the echoes of the roar that loitered in his head.

_A...nightmare? _

His face twisted, but he could do nothing but lay there, breathing hard as the furious pounding of his heart played percussion to his breathing. There were demons in his head. Dark whispers he couldn't distinguish. He had never felt anything so…disturbing. And yet already he was unable to even recall the dream, the once vivid details were already fading from his mind along with the last vestiges of sleep.

Grunting, he pulled himself up, running a rough hand across his face and head, damp strands clinging to his fingers like spider webs. He'd been sweating hard. Was _still_ sweating, he realized hazily. His shirt was soaked; it clung uncomfortably to him like a second skin. And yet despite this, despite his flushed form, the room around him was icy cold. _Freezing_, as though he'd let the air conditioner run all night.

He blinked foggily into the darkness around him. Beside him, the telephone had long since ceased its rings, leaving an unearthly stillness in its wake.

_Darkness…deathly silent…_

Lethargic eyes surveyed the room.

A simple room, sparsely furnished, from what he could see. _Your hotel room_, his eyes were telling him, even though his mind remembered no such thing. Hadn't he been camping somewhere…? The room around him looked vaguely familiar, generic, even. Like every other middle suite hotel he'd ever been. From the glow of the television he could just make out the form of his belt and Pokéballs near the center of the room, strewn uncharacteristically across the floor. And next to that, a few feet away, was what looked to be an unlaced sneaker. He frowned, resisting the urge to yawn. For some reason, he felt languid, as though he'd just awoken from a heavily drug induced sleep. Inadvertently his lids lowered, and it was at this moment, with his vision partially obscured, that he thought he saw the shadow move.

It had lain stationary across the floor and bed, large and dark, but now suddenly it withdrew, shrinking back to the corners of the room, back to where the glow of the television didn't reach, and he watched it with a sort of detached interest, wondering for a moment if he was even awake. Shadows didn't _move_; not unless-

_Not unless the object from which they were cast, did_.

The haze in his mind suddenly cleared, and that rational part of him finally awoke. His body tensed, ready to spring, and this time, it was with sharp eyes that he studied the room.

He was alone.

The shadows that covered the room were just that; simply shadows. The darkness that had previously cloaked the area was fading; perhaps it had never truly been there, he thought flatly. The curtains behind his bed were partially open, and a thin ray of sunlight shone through the window. Then too, there was the television, muted and currently running what looked to be some sort of documentary.

He didn't remember turning it on.

He frowned.

He didn't remember coming in last night, either.

Another frown, this time laced with growing unease. The fleeting image of darkness draped his mind before vanishing. He closed his eyes. Calm…he needed to stay calm. It was perfectly normal to wake up a little disoriented after a deep sleep. _Perfectly normal_. There was even a name for it, if he wasn't mistaken; some technical scientific name that escaped him at the moment, but a name none-the-less. A scowl melted onto his grim expression. Pathetic as it was, the nightmare had shaken him up more than he cared to admit. It did nothing to ease his mind; that he, _he_ of all people would be affected by something so _trivial_…

He huffed, dry lips pressed woodenly together. He felt nauseous. There was a strange taste in his mouth, something metallic and coppery that he refused to dwell on. As soon as he calmed down, he decided then, as soon as his heart stopped racing, his memory would return.

And so he waited, forcing his breathing to slow, sitting meditatively on the bed. The sheets were clammy around him, and the cool air of the A/C was like a frosty kiss to his flushed skin. _Calm…I'm calm…_

He shifted, thinking back to the previous night.

His mind came up a blank.

The knotted feeling in his abdomen grew. For one brief, wild moment, his thoughts ran rampant. _What was wrong with him_? _How long had he_ _been laying here?_ Moments later his mind was still blank, and when he opened his eyes, they glinted with cold apprehension.

He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember _any_ of last night. His fingers clutched the dampened sheets, body automatically tensing. He couldn't remember…._couldn't remember—_

_Normal…it's normal that I don't remember how I got to bed last night…_

It sounded like a load of shit, even to him.

He didn't realize when the phone had resumed its ringing; it was only when he heard that screeching cry, the haunting scream that still lingered in his mind, that he was conscious of it. He stared blankly at machine, not really even seeing it, or maybe expecting to see something else, before it quieted. The quiet murmur of the television, the ticking of a wall clock somewhere in the room, the hum of the air conditioner; they filled his consciousness, distantly, but he was unaware of it, staring down, for the first time, at himself.

The black T-shirt he wore was soaked through with sweat and debris. It itched against his skin; for some reason his body tingled uncomfortably, as though he had sunburn, and his sweaty cloths weren't helping. He tugged at the shirt haphazardly, watching the dark material stretch in his fingertips. Fingertips that were black with grim for some reason. There was the faint scent of smoke, mixed with the stronger overriding odor of sweat, along with something else he couldn't identify. Why did his cloths smell like smoke? And…

Where was his _jacket_? He stared around the room, eyes darting about, and somewhere in his mind he was aware that this was a useless detail. The jacket wasn't important. It wasn't even that expensive, really, and wherever it was, it could be easily replaced.

But for some reason, his mind kept returning to the thing, unbidden. He needed to find that jacket. He _needed_ that jacket…

_Forget the stupid jacket!_ He thought angrily. Except that for some reason, his mind could not seem to let go of the thought. If he found his jacket, he'd find answers. Somehow he knew this.

But where to begin?

He needed to get up, he realized then. Get up and find out just where the hell he was. Sitting here hypothesizing was just…_useless_. Probably someone had seen something. No, he corrected brusquely, they _had_ to have seen something. He was too well known, too much of a celebrity for people NOT to recognize him. If he didn't find out soon, it would certainly be all over the networks; television, magazines… Somehow, something had happened to him, and whatever it was had left him so out of it that he had not even bothered to undress, had simply fallen into bed.

…or maybe someone put him there?

He scratched that idea. There was no way he'd NOT remember someone putting him to bed. And the very thought of someone seeing him in what had obviously been a weak moment…

His hands clutched the bed sheets, eyes once again scanning the room, drawn again to his lone sneaker and belt. It wasn't like him to leave such things lying around. He was obsessively neat… to the point of compulsion, really. Most wandering trainers were. You didn't leave things simply strewn about in a camp site. It could attract _predators_—

He froze, brows deepening in sudden discursion. Something had caught his attention, something in the half light of the room, just at the foot of the bed, on the floor beside his sneaker. A blinking light-

His Pokédex was blinking.

He was there in an instant, ignoring the sudden wave of nausea and dizziness that struck at his sudden movements. He reached down, snatching the thing up before collapsing back on the bed. That small bit of movement had been strangely taxing. It left him spent, exhausted, panting for breath. He allowed himself a few scant moments of recovery before gritting his teeth and forcefully pushing himself up. He didn't have time for this. He needed to focus on the Pokédex.

_The dex_…

His eyes were greedy as he considered the thing. Pokédexes had internal clocks and calendars. And GPS systems. If nothing else he'd be able to find out where he was at present, what town he was in. He flipped it open, pausing slightly at the heat in his hands. It was unusually hot… as though he'd left it powered on.

_Hn_.

Yet another result of his unremembered night, no doubt.

This was confirmed when he noticed the energy bar on the screen. One bar of energy left. He stared. The thing was nearly _completely_ out of energy. But that was _impossible_. He recharged it nightly, meticulously and without fail. One night of being uncharged certainly wasn't long enough for the dex to be _this_ low on energy.

Or _had_ it only been one night? His dark eyes narrowed at the possibility. How long had he been unconscious? How long had he been lying here in this unfamiliar room? He felt that panic which he'd so fervently denied build again within his chest. There was no way he could have been out for more than a night…not _him_. He wasn't that….that…_pathetic_. That _weak_. Whatever the situation was, whatever had happened to him it could never have been enough to put him out of commission like _this_. He flat out refused to even consider that possibility.

But for a moment he felt the faint inklings of doubt.

His eyes dropped down to the screen in his hand, the screen he usually felt so much confidence in. How many times had he held the thing..or _not_ held it, because he was so confident that he didn't need it? Hell, he _didn't_ need the thing, not really. It was only out of habit that he even continued to carry it with him. He'd long ago stopped relying on it for information. It was a weakness to be so dependent upon a machine that could easily malfunction at any given moment.

Better to absorb that information into his head, to memorize everything Pokémon related, so that he would never be in such a situation.

So he'd stopped using it as much, had only brought it out in the most extreme situations. But now….now with the wings of doubt fluttering in his mind, he stared down at the screen, feeling like he was 11 years old again.

_Impossible_…

The number of Pokémon breeds he had seen had increased by one.

But he hadn't _seen_ anything new…not for years, now. There wasn't anything new _to_ see, not really. Over the past eight years since becoming a trainer, he'd seen nearly every known breed of Pokémon there was, even the more recently discovered ones. That number had not changed in a long time. He hadn't expected it to.

And yet, it _had_.

His Pokédex had somehow recorded an additional Pokémon sighting.

But even as he thought this, even while his mind began formulating possible reasons for the obvious glitch, his fingers were moving, scrolling down, eyes piercing in their sharpness. There was _no way_ he'd seen a new Pokémon and not remember. _No way_-

He stopped, breathing hard. Distantly, some part of him registered the ringing phone - the fifth ring, to be exact - but his eyes were frozen onto the tiny screen. The once cold room now seemed unbearably hot, and his mind, always teeming with thoughts and strategies, was strangely blank.

No.

_No_.

Number 481 was now being registered as 'seen'.

His fingers tightened on the dex as a slow fury began to rise, like the gathering of a storm.

_Not possible_, he thought flatly.

He had _not_ seen Mesprit. He would have remembered. And if he _had_ seen it, he certainly wouldn't be _here_, in God knows where, _in bed_, while such a thing was still out there roaming free and _uncaptured_-

_When did this happen?!_ It was as though a switch had been flipped. He was no longer the confused and bewildered young man who'd awoke some 15 minutes earlier. Now he was once again The Trainer, The Sinnoh Region Hopeful, the scion of trainers everywhere, and he transitioned into the role smoothly, without even a hitch. Here was familiar territory, something he could logically decipher, something he _knew_. Something he did not have to be confused about…

His fingers worked furiously, scrolling, entering. Pokédex entries recorded the date, time and location of a sighting. It'd be no problem to-

The dex abruptly flickered off, out of energy.

His fingers stilled. At almost the exact moment, the phone ceased it's ringing.

The room was silent, save for heavy, rasping breathing. His breathing.

Paul dropped the dex wordlessly, fingers slowly curling into a fist. His lids drooped and he sat there, motionless, trying to reign in the sudden fury that had washed over him. His breathing had crescendoed, escalating to the pounding of his heart, as though he had run for miles without stopping. His chest burned, his heart pounded. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat.

_No!_

And suddenly he was flying towards what he knew to be the bathroom. He flung open the heavy oak door, flipped the switch and stared accusingly into the mirror. He did not recognize the furious face that stared back. To say he looked horrible would be an understatement. The tingling in his skin, he realized at once, really _was_ sunburn. His normally olive toned complexion was a deep red. Some of it had already advanced to the later stages. The skin on his face and neck had begun to blister, and his pale lavender locks hung like limp noodles around his face. Dark circles lined beneath his eyes. And his eyes, he realized then, his eyes were…they were…

Haunted.

It was not a look he was familiar with. At least not intimately. Oh, there was the surface anger, a superficial rage- _frustration_ at his obvious lack of memories, but beyond that, there was nothing. The dark eyes that stared back at him were flat, as dull as a dead fish's gaze.

_Don't open your eyes! _

He felt sick. The room around him turned hazy, smoky. His nose burned, his eyes watered, and suddenly he was overcome by dizziness; blood rushed to his head, and it was all he could do to remain standing as the sudden wave of nausea hit him like a typhoon. And then he was doubled over the sink, hands clutching desperately at the sides as he vomited helplessly into porcelain basin.

oOo

A/N: Before anyone says anything, I'm aware that it's UXIE who causes those to lose their memories. I promise everything will start to make sense soon!

I'm a HUGE Paul/Shinji fan. With his personality, I think he's one of the most under- appreciated, yet fascinating characters in DP. (at present he, along with the mythos in the Sinnoh region, is the only reason I even continue to keep up with the DP series) He's garnered so much controversy that it's 'Either/OR' with him; that is, you either love him or you hate him, no in between. It's RARE to see a fic dedicated solely to him, where he isn't sharing the spotlight with one of the other characters. I've yet to even find such a fic, to be honest. I had this story planned out as early as summer of '07. However, I thought it'd be a good idea to wait awhile and see if the anime revealed a bit more about Shinji's past before delving into a story about him. I wanted to keep things as canon as possible in regards to his background and personality. However, nearly a year later, about the only thing that's really been gleaned is that he has an older brother named Reiji. Therefore, I've decided to go ahead with my original plan and post as is. D&P seems to be dragging along…with no end in sight thus far, so I guess I'll be in for a long wait if I wait for the anime to get going.

For consistency purposes, I'll be using the dub anime names. Although I'm very familiar with Japanese names of the humans and the _original_ 150 Pokémon, I only know the English names of the newer generation Pokémon. So to be safe, I will be using all English names. (I hope that this doesn't bother any of you..)

Please, please review and tell me what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon.

oOo

Once, when he was young and inexperienced, he'd been bitten by a Nidoran.

It had been his brother's Pokémon; a skittish creature, fairly large with glossy purple skin and gleaming red eyes. He'd been foolish; in a rare moment of childish glee he'd run at the animal, intent on stroking that strange and shining skin. It had been a mistake.

Later, amidst the tears and blood, Reggie had calmly, gently explained that he had frightened the thing. "Nidoran doesn't know you," he'd said softly, bandaging the wound with all the patience of a parent. "It's just like with humans. You have to introduce yourself first, earn his trust. It's rude to touch or grab someone without introducing yourself." Even at age eleven his brother had been disgustingly compassionate.

Of course, he'd neglected to mention to a then four year old Paul how lucky he'd been that he'd simply been _bitten_ by the Pokémon and not _poisoned_.

He straightened, panting from the exertion of his emesis. It was with startling clarity that he recalled the event. Even now, braced weakly against the sink, eyes slipping shut and with darkness creeping along the edges of his psyche, the alacrity with which it shone was unsettling.

At length he opened his eyes, staring dully into the mirror. The image seemed to glare back; angry, _accusing_. It was the first sign of life he'd seen in those eyes since awakening. Here were his eyes. _These_, he thought, staring into the mirror with grim satisfaction. Not that flat, lifeless gaze from before. That lost and helpless look had no place on _him_.

The image shifted, leaned closer as though to divulge some secret– or was it he himself who had moved closer to the mirror? A tongue darted out to wet cracked lips, and then the lips were moving, whispering something too low and too fast to decipher. His hands gripped the basin; the image in the mirror took on a concentrated expression.

Was he _drunk_? It wasn't something he did, but then nothing so far had been normal. He shook his head slowly. The reflection did the same, looking both reproachful and mildly disgusted, and just as suddenly the spell was broken. The boy staring back at him was again weak and sunburned with dull, flat eyes. He looked away from the mirror, turning on the tap.

His mind was playing tricks on him, he thought darkly, casting a feeble glare into the basin. At least he hadn't eaten anything solid recently, if the evidence in the sink was any indication. Actually, it looked as though he hadn't eaten much of anything, lately. He felt completely empty on the inside, but just the thought of food was turning his stomach. He wiped his mouth, suddenly thirsty. Moments later his hands were under the tap, glorifying in the coolness, sloshing water onto his face, gulping down the liquid in desperate swallows. It wasn't the _best_ he'd ever tasted; it was hard and chlorinated and tasted mildly of hydrogen sulfide but _oh_. At that moment it had to be the best thing in the world.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of how he looked; head poised pathetically under the tap, hands trembling as the water slipped between shaky fingers. That part of him seethed in disapproval, disgusted at his obvious lack of control. Lapping from the tap like some _dog_-

The thought struck home.

He was up so fast that his head was spinning. _Too fast…_ for his vision blurred; a moment later he found himself flat on his back, spread-eagle, staring dazedly up into the bright florescent lights of the bathroom. He'd fallen.

_Fallen!_ _Him!_ Like…like some sort of …_invalid_.

_Except that invalids are weak_, he reminded himself fiercely. They were weak and frail and pathetic and completely _useless_; they couldn't do anything for themselves without assistance. _He_ wasn't like that. _He wasn't!_ Something clenched in his chest, his stilted breathing turned to torrid gasps. His limbs didn't seem to want to _move_; his horror escalated.

He didn't know how long he lay there, struggling for control, unable to move. Above him, the tap continued to run, and the brightness of the lights blurred into an indistinct fuzz. He might have dozed, because when he opened his eyes his body felt thoroughly chilled. But the choking anxiety he'd felt was gone, and when he cautiously attempted to lift an arm, he was relieved to find that it actually obeyed.

But as soon as he moved his head he was assaulted by pain so severe that his vision blanked out. _Okay_, he thought grimly. _Slower, then_. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, gritting his teeth against the agony in his head. Reaching a stiff hand behind him, he shuffled gingerly through the matted locks of hair. The spot was tender, and his fingers came back red. But head wounds almost always bled and were usually not as serious as they looked, weren't they? He remembered reading that somewhere.

_Somewhere_, but at the moment he couldn't remember much of anything.

_Great_. A possible concussion along with amnesia and _God only knew_ what else. He grimaced. The irony wasn't lost to him: weak as a Skitty, sprawled across the floor like some…_loser_. It was weakness…something he despised in his Pokémon. In people in _general_, really. _There is a logical explanation for this_, he thought gritting his teeth. There _was_. He was simply going about it the wrong way. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. The sudden darkness took him by surprise, and he opened them again, feeling suddenly, _inexplicably_, anxious.

_Okaay… What do I know so far?_

His apparent amnesia, the blistering skin, his _cloths_…

The memory of the Nidoran attacking swam again to the surface.

If he had to guess, which was all that he _could_ do really, he'd say the most obvious explanation would be that he'd been attacked by a Pokémon. Probably while trying to catch one, or maybe even during a training exercise. An attack gone awry, maybe. The younger and or newly evolved Pokémon tended to have trouble with their aim, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd been hit by a wayward attack. Something to do with fire most definitely, judging from his skin. And a confusion or amnesia attack…maybe even some sort of poison. He could almost see it; a phantom image of himself pitting two of his creatures against each other in a free-for-all. Or perhaps, he thought suddenly, he'd been training a newly _captured_ Pokémon. The wild ones were often rebellious and had to be broken in.

Except that he wasn't some _novice_. He just couldn't see himself being taken by surprise like that.

_Still_, he admitted grudgingly, it made sense in a way. _Sort of_. There were a lot of problems with the scenario. The most obvious being how he had managed to make it back to a hotel in the condition he was in. He could barely stand on his own, as it was.

He scowled. Either way you looked at it, the end result was the same.

He'd been careless.

_Careless_! _Him!_ It was almost _worse_ than being weak, this negligence, and yet even so, it made him feel slightly less vulnerable to be able to work out a hypothesis, regardless of the holes.

But it still didn't explain the additional sighting on his dex.

_Nothing_ he could come up with could explain _that_…except that the dex had probably been damaged when he got caught up in whatever attack he'd been hit with. And what Pokémon had attacked him? There were any number of attacks that his symptoms could fit under, and without his memory, without some sort of clue… He was frustrated to find that he couldn't even remember the Pokémon he was currently _carrying_. His hand curled into a fist. The small bubble of control he'd managed to cultivate was growing thin. He hadn't made much - if any - progress since waking; It all came back to the same conclusion: _I can't remember_.

_I CAN'T REMEMBER!_

A sudden stab of pain assaulted his senses, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to calm.

Okay. He took a breath, opening his eyes and staring at the lone sneaker on his foot. How many hours had passed since he'd awoken in the bed? Several, if the soiled condition of his body was any indication. But his dex, he was sure, would have been fully charged at the time of his…_excursion_. He would have made certain of it. He was_ always _prepared. That meant – hypothetically speaking, of course- that he would've had to have been unconscious – or at least without memory - for _over_ a day. At least _three _days, because that's how long it took for a fully charged dex to completely lose power.

But maybe it _hadn't_ lost power. If whatever attack he'd been hit with had hit the dex, it was possible that it would be damaged as well, possibly resulting in power failure.

Except that the dex had been in perfect condition, he realized suddenly. He hadn't remembered seeing any burn or melt marks when he'd handled it, and despite his dazed state, he was fairly certain he would have noticed such a thing. With the exception of a few chinks and nicks from travel, the case was still as smooth as the day he'd gotten it. The screen hadn't even been cracked. Dexes were resilient, true, but they weren't _that_ durable. There would have been some sort of evidence of mishap had it occurred, and something…_something_ had definitely occurred. He ran a hand across his face, and mindless of the pain, struggled to his feet. Automatically he reached for his Pokéballs, only just remembering that they lay strewn across the floor of the bedroom. Cursing, he made his way there, the running tap momentarily forgotten, the blood roaring in his ears, a dull throb of pain beating glaringly with each step.

He stopped just outside of the bathroom doorway.

He'd never been afraid of the dark before - it was ridiculous for a wandering trainer to have such fears - but just as before he felt his body tense up. He was _nervous_. His pulse sped up, his eyes widened.

The shadows seemed to loom on the edges of the sparsely lit bedroom, like predators. His skin tingled. Disgusted, he shrugged it off. Unused to being this helpless, he was making himself unaccountably paranoid. Even worse was the fact that he found he felt strangely relieved for the muted television, for the slightly opened curtains and the sparse bit of light they provided. His body visibly relaxed at the sight, and the realization of this made him angry, to be thusly dependent on something. Weaknesses were crutches, handicaps. He was too old to be nursing these habits!

_It's just the side-effects of the Pokémon attack._ It ran like a mantra through his head, though it was a small consolation, more irritation than comfort, that he would even have to _make_ such excuses. His gaze turned dark as he searched the room. He remembered seeing _them_ when he'd first woken up, discarded haphazardly in the center of the room. _Five,_ he counted spotting them finally. Five, when there _should_ have been six. He dropped stiffly to his knees. Didn't he always carry six, now-a-days? _He was sure_—

But then, was he really sure of anything right now?

He didn't finish the thought, reaching out slowly, one by one pulling each ball methodically from the belt. They were cold against his skin, felt foreign and alien. There was no connection, no familiarity about them whatsoever. They might have been empty, for all that he felt. What was inside them, he wondered, disgusted at his inability to remember? Which of these creatures, _if any_, was responsible for his current state? His grip tightened; just as suddenly he found himself enlarging it, stretching out his arm, thumb over the release button-

And then the phone rang.

He cast an exasperated glare at the ringing obstruction. _**Now**__ of all times—!_

Come to think of it, it had been ringing nearly nonstop since he'd been awake, and he could think of no reason why anyone would know his room number in the first place. Not to mention the small but undeniable fact that he still had no idea if this was even actually his _room_. And did he really want news of what had happened to him getting out? Though there was the distinct possibility that it was already news; the hotel staff had to have come across him at _some_ point. He didn't think he'd have been coherent enough to put up a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. He grimaced.

Although, he conceded already rising, if he _did_ answer it he could probably learn something. And really, he couldn't be any worse off than he already was. Right?

He picked up the receiver.

"Paul speaking." It was the first time he'd spoken aloud since he'd awakened. His voice was hoarse, dry. As if he'd been coughing.

_Or screaming-_

"Hello…is this room 351?" _As if he knew the answer to that!_ The voice was female, hesitant and childlike.

And one he didn't recognize, he thought, eyes narrowing.

"Did you want something?," he snapped. It was a safe response, he decided finally. Quick and to the point and delivered with enough impatience and sharpness that he'd probably disarmed the person. Predictably, the voice on the other end hesitated, and he kicked off his lone shoe impatiently. It hit the wall before him with a resounding THUMP.

Over the phone, the voice sounded slightly put off. Obviously he had offended her. "Um…well…this is nurse Poppy Joy from the Floaroma Town Pokécenter. I was calling to inform you about your Chimchar. Its condition is currently stable, and you can even pick it up today if you like…"

A pause.

A _long_ pause. She seemed to be waiting for him to respond. His grip tightened a little on the phone.

"…my _Chimchar_?"

"Yes, sir." The voice sounded uncertain. It did nothing to relieve his confusion.

"You're mistaken," he replied finally. "You must have the wrong person." And he moved to hang up the phone. Except that the nurse continued talking, oblivious to his actions.

"You're the Sinnoh region's Hopeful, aren't you? You were the one who brought in that little Chimchar three days ago. I worked on it personally. We weren't sure at first if it would even survive the night, but it's awake now and…hello? _Hello_??"

He yanked the cord from the jack and threw down the receiver. He was panting again, and suddenly his skin was burning and his head was aching and_—_

"_You're not looking too well," she chided gently. But her pale eyes twinkled, and he got the vaguest impression that she was making fun of him. _

"_Don't patronize me," he spat, summoning Houndoom back to its ball. It was useless and he'd deal with it later. Bowing stiffly, he turned away from the blonde. It was a ritual, a cycle with no obvious end in sight. He had yet to defeat her, even after eight long years. His jaw clenched, but then she was suddenly speaking, interrupting his brooding thoughts. _

"_Do you recognize this place, Paul?" He glanced back. She was looking away, blonde hair blowing around her, gaze tilted upward towards the sunset. He grunted, stooping to collect his pack._

"_We had our very first match here. Do you remember?" She didn't wait for an answer, turning to walk towards him. Her sudden intensity disturbed him. She stopped about a foot away, watching him with pale, glinting eyes. _

"_You really don't look well. You should take better care of yourself. A haggard trainer is a liability in battle." He bristled. He disliked this side of her, the lecturing 'holier than thou' attitude as though she knew what was best for everyone._

"_Thanks for the advice," But his tone spoke the opposite. "and the battle." He turned to go. He was always the first to leave. It gave him a sort of childish satisfaction to do so, to present her with his back. And really, there was no reason to _stay_. _

_Her responding laughter was like bells._

"_You're like I was, back then." She said softly, and something in her voice gave him pause. _

_She did not disappoint. "I'll make a deal with you. I'll give you your battle. Two weeks from now." He turned, regarding her through dark, hooded eyes. She never offered to battle. It was he who always did the challenging._

"_But…" she smiled, that same coy, enigmatic expression that had become her signature. She was leading him, he knew. She was _always_ leading him, baiting him, and he hated it, but just like always he found himself reacting._

"…_but?" And then he frowned. The sun had settled behind her, and it gave her form an ethereal glow, the blonde hair fanning behind her like molten flames._

"_But," she continued slowly, "there's a condition."_

Heavy breathing filled his ears, loud, unsteady. He was on the floor, facing the wall, the telephone cord clutched tightly in his grip.

_Cynthia._

His mind was in a whirl. Had he seen her? _Recently_? How current was this memory, if it were even that? Realistically, it made sense that he _would _have seen her; she was the only thing standing in his way to becoming Sinnoh's champion, after all, but without knowing the full details it was nearly impossible to gauge anything. Had this supposed battle already taken place? Frustration mounted as he realized that, once again, _he couldn't remember_.

_There's a condition_.

She had switched tactics so quickly. To so readily agree to another battle, when she was always telling him to '_slow down' _was so out of character that—

-and had he accepted her 'condition'?

No…_yes_. No. _Wait_.

There was no reason to believe that he wouldn't, he concluded finally. Even without knowing, without _remembering_ what the condition was—

And the 'nurse'.

She had claimed to see him. Had even appeared to recognize his voice. Of course, this was entirely possible. _Everyone_ knew his voice and face by now. He was everywhere; on TV, radio stations, billboards, magazine covers… The supposed nurse's testimony was anything but original. It was highly possible that she might not even _be_ a nurse. She could just as easily be some obsessive fanatic trying to see him. And most importantly-

He didn't even _have_ a Chimchar. That much he DID remember, and it was what confused him most of all.

_You're the Sinnoh region's Hopeful, right?_

He _was_, but…

His glare deepened, tightened into a steely mask. That was the trouble with fame. The general public knew nearly all there was to know about you. Yes, he'd had a Chimchar once…years ago. A weak and useless thing more suited perhaps as a child's pet than for battling. He'd gotten rid of it, and-

…and what the hell was he even _doing_ in Floaroma Town of all places? It wasn't exactly a battle hotspot.

He stood, braced carefully against the wall. The pain in his head had begun to subside, fading into little more than a dull ache, and he worried briefly that his body might be going into shock, but more important was the situation. He had to make sense of it before he started thinking about anything else. Although the unfailing stiffness in his limbs was irritating, _distracting_ to say the least. It made each step awkward and stilted, and his body's dilapidated state did not help matters, but he kept walking, did not stop until he'd reached the opposite end of the room, to the small wooden desk in the corner. Atop it was the knapsack he always carried. Perhaps it held a clue. Maybe, but he doubted it. In all probability the dex was probably his best bet, but until it was fully charged again, it was completely useless. He made a mental note to plug it in, reaching over to slide the bag towards him.

In contrast to his other belongings, it had been neatly deposited on the table, which puzzled him. If he'd had the energy to walk across the room and set his bag down, why hadn't he done so for the rest of his things? Why hadn't he at least undressed? His Pokémon were much more valuable. Why would he leave them carelessly on the floor and take such care with his bag? Again he was struck by the thought that perhaps he'd been _put_ to bed, but once more he forced it from his mind, fumbling now with the latch.

He normally only carried the bare essentials; ramen, water, an extra change of clothing, Pokémon food and medicine. But the bag felt unusually heavy, and when he'd shuffled through to the bottom, he found the last thing he'd ever think to carry.

A book.

A _thick _book.

_What the __**hell**_—

Worn and frayed, it was a dark green hardcover that could probably double as a weapon. On the front, he could just barely make out the faded title, _Sinnoh Myths and Legends_.

Even in his current state, he could not, _would _not believe, that he'd willingly tote around a book of _fairy tales._ It was the sort of shit Cynthia got off on, and more importantly, it easily weighed a good 20 pounds…there was no way in hell he'd lug the thing around, much less waste time _reading_ it.

Just what the hell had he been _doing_ before he lost his memory?

His expression twisted, darkened. He felt faintly nauseous. He didn't like the feeling, this unpredictability, this _not knowing_. He'd been attacked by a Pokémon, of this much he was certain. But why was he in Floaroma Town? What had brought him here? He didn't wander aimlessly; he always had an objective, a _reason_. He didn't like to waste his time…

He decided then, in that split second, that he would see the nurse.

oOo

I had to split this chapter in half; it was getting WAY too long, bordering on sixteen pages.

You guys are great! I want to thank those who reviewed the previous chapter: **Dark Angel** **of the** **Underworld**, **Jordan-Daniel**, **SecretAgent99**, **fire spirit**, **Caldazar Atreides**, as well as those who might not have reviewed, but who never-the-less added me to their 'favorites' or put the fic on 'alert'. I apologize for the 5 month delay in getting this out; This chapter was a bit hard to write, mostly because it was an intermediary chapter -more introspective than anything else- but also because even though it's been a good five or so months, the DP series seems to have come to a standstill. NOTHING has been happening! It's quite frustrating, and the addition of the whole contest arc as a main part of the series seems to have slowed the plot down to a snails trail. I'm anxious to get to Team Galactic, to perhaps see more of Hunter Jay, (and of course get more screen time/background info on Shinji).

Please review and tell me what you think! The next chapter is already over halfway written, and will probably be up pretty soon.


	3. Chapter 3

_Good creatures, do you love your lives  
And have you ears for sense?  
Here is a knife like other knives,  
That cost me eighteen pence._

_I need but stick it in my heart  
And down will come the sky,  
And earth's foundations will depart  
And all you folk will die._

A. E. Housman, _XXVI_

oOo

Sunlight struggled to filter through grey clouds and sent distorted, misshapen shadows across the roads. His sneakered foot paused coming down, carefully bypassing the tortoiseshell pattern of shade and stepping instead in the sparse bit of sunlight beside it. He didn't know how long he'd been doing this, avoiding the shadows. He'd been concentrating on simply _breathing_, so that by the time he'd noticed the discrepancy he'd already been walking a good fifteen minutes, and by then it didn't matter anyway because he was halfway there.

_Almost there._

It felt like the longest walk of his life.

He watched with clinical detachment as he abruptly side-stepped a shadow.

He wished he had a hat...which spoke volumes of his state of mind because he _hated_ hats. Only n00bs and idiots wore them. And not even for the purpose they'd been created for. They wore it in some lame, misguided attempt to look 'cool'. Now however, on the streets in broad daylight, he found himself wishing he had one. He didn't care how stupid it made him look, or that with the overcast there was no real _need_ for one. His spill in the bathroom had left an open gash at the back of his head. A _leaking_ gash. He couldn't tell yet how bad it was, but even after showering it was still pouring blood. And _nothing_ grabbed attention more than blood. Not to mention that with his lavender hair - never mind that it was a fairly common color- it wouldn't take long for anyone to recognize him.

…on second thought, maybe it _would_. He looked horrible, _worse_ than horrible, and anyone who saw him now would probably swear he was on drugs. Or worse. They wouldn't be that far from the mark, actually. He was dead on his feet, the wound on the back of his head throbbed, and every time he took a step, every time a piece of his clothing rubbed against his blistered, chafed skin it felt like sandpaper.

And he _hurt_.

_God_ he hurt. _Everywhere_. His limbs hadn't been in this much pain since he was eleven years old, when he'd first started out as a trainer and had had to run whenever he'd disturbed something his rookie Pokémon had no chance of defeating—

He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, lank, pale strands hanging in choppy clumps around his face, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

After taking a shower he'd rustled through his bag again, this time for spare cloths. The soap had quite possibly made his skin worse; he hadn't been able to find his own toiletries and had been forced to use the hotel's cheap soap and shampoo, which admittedly had done little to aid his already raw skin. Plus, the only clean article of clothing he'd found in his knapsack was a plain white T-shirt. The rest of the things were far from fresh, but had certainly been better than the ones he'd taken off. He would need to get to a store to buy new clothes, or to at least launder the ones he had, but most of his money was only accessible electronically through his dex, and since it was currently uncharged, _that_ point was moot. He rarely carried loose money; it was much too hazardous for a trainer, but now he cursed the practice. He'd have to wait till the dex charged up again before he could buy anything.

Briefly he considered having Reggie wire him cash, but quickly quashed the thought. His brother would wonder why he needed it, would nag him for an explanation, and he did not have the patience yet to deal with him.

After securing his belt to his jeans and running a hand through his still damp hair, he'd been ready to go. There hadn't been much he could do about the room. Most modern hotels had doors that required a trainer to scan their dex as a key, but since his dex was currently useless –presently plugged into a wall outlet because it charged faster that way than with the portable chargers trainers usually carried- he would have to have one of the hotel workers open it.

If it even _was_ his room. He decided not to dwell on it.

Floaroma town was one of those sickly sweet places that made a person want to hurl. _Literally_. The scent of flowers was disgustingly intense, and his nose for some reason was prickly and oversensitive. Every time he took a breath it made his eyes water and his sinuses burn, but breathing through his mouth didn't seem to be any better. He _hated_ flowers, but here there was no way to avoid them. They were, quite literally, _everywhere_; planted neatly (and not so neatly) along the sidewalks, growing wildly in yards, looming overhead in the guise of flowering trees. It was just barely spring, but somehow it looked like every flower in the fucking town was in full bloom.

He sent a cursory glance around.

From the sun's position in the sky, or rather, from its position behind the clouds, he'd guess it to be about 12 or so. And yet except for himself and a few loiterers, the streets were mostly bare. The atmosphere, for Floaroma at least, was unusually subdued. Towns like this were usually bustling with life, especially on bright, clear days like this. Little old ladies out watering flowers, kids running around getting in people's way, Pokémon trainers passing through…

Today it was a ghost town.

He shook off the apprehension that coated him. It was _good_ that there weren't a lot of people around. Less people meant having to deal with less _idiots_. It meant no one would be hounding him for autographs or training tips or battle techniques. It meant no one would be interested in the lone, sunburned, lavender-haired boy with his hands shoved in his pockets and blood dripping on the neckline of his T-shirt.

And if he _was_ noticed, he thought, watching as a teen ambled past him, it meant he looked bad enough that no one _recognized_ him. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. The boy's eyes met his—

_Hey! You're Paul from Veilstone!_

_Look everybody! It's Sinnoh's Hopeful!_

-and simply slid over him dismissively.

If he hadn't felt so awkward on his feet, he might have been offended.

Like everything else in the Floaroma, its Pokécenter was drowning in flowers. He must be allergic to some of them, he thought irritated, because breathing through his mouth wasn't helping. _At all._ He swiped at his leaking eyes, swearing softly before shuffling towards the front desk. His skin was burning again, probably from the sweat. It wasn't particularly hot today, (a little chilly, actually) but he was sweating buckets and his breath was labored. His body had never been this out of shape before – chasing after wild Pokémon and walking damn near across the continent prevented that sort of thing – but now it was altogether _sickening_ how out of sorts he was, and he couldn't help the grimace that crossed his face.

_All the more reason_, he thought, _to make this quick._ He didn't need another episode like the bathroom-

He broke off mid-thought.

Behind the desk, not even 3 yards away was a Chansey. Ginormous and pink, with that ridiculous hat the nurses seemed so fond of dressing them in. It stared, looking faintly startled, and he glared back. He _hated_ dealing with the things and they weren't very fond of him either. Therefore, it should not have been a surprise when it abruptly turned and waddled away.

He didn't have time to get indignant, because a pink-haired Joy was suddenly peeking out from the doorway the Chansey had disappeared through. Her eyes widened, and then she too disappeared, making him roll his eyes and exhale in exasperation. His irritation dissolved in a fit of coughing seconds later, and suddenly she had reappeared, cradling – he squinted – cradling…cradling _something_ in her arms before laying it carefully on the counter and turning towards him.

She looked, he noticed, much the same as the other Joys. A bit younger maybe; he'd gotten that impression on the phone as well. The other Joys were polite and unassuming, but this one had sounded _hesitant_. The sort borne from youth and inexperience.

Then again it was hard to tell with _them_. He scowled. They looked so much alike it was plain _ridiculous_.

He didn't speak at first. Truthfully he hadn't thought of what it was he'd say when he got there. Something along the lines of, '_How the hell did you get my number and what exactly happened to me?'_ That wouldn't go over well. Random confessions of amnesia after all did not sound…sane. He should have researched this more, he realized suddenly. Should have come up with some kind of a...plan or something. He clenched his fists. _This_ -- impulsive actions-- were not his _style_. He never did anything he hadn't run through his head at least 500 times.

So why hadn't he thought this through?

He didn't know.

No. A lie. He _did_ know, but the realization of this was abjectly _worse_ than not being prepared.

_You were scared to be in the hotel room alone, you douche. You were __**eager**__ to leave—_

He halted this thought immediately, jaw unconsciously tightening. He glanced up to find the nurse's eyes on him. He was taking too long. Or had she said something? If so, he'd completely missed whatever it was. The thought made him angry, frustrated him even more. He opened his mouth -- to say _what_ he didn't know -- but the words, whatever they might have been, died on his tongue at the expression on the face of the woman. And watching her watch him, he was suddenly struck by something. Something he should have picked up on the moment he arrived.

She didn't look at all surprised to see him. She'd seemed to be expecting him, even.

The Chansey too, now that he thought about it, had appeared to recognize him on sight. As if they'd _seen_ him before. He narrowed his eyes, silently sifting through what little memories he had access to:_ Dodging the afternoon shadows across the roads. Falling on the bathroom floor. Finding the sighting on his Pokedex, watching the shadow move across the bed— _

_A flash_. _The night sky, dotted with stars and a pale, waning moon—_

A moment later it was gone, and he had no way of knowing whether the image was of his immediate past or of something he'd seen any number of times during his travels. Regardless, his attention had already returned to the situation before him. He was Shinnoh's 'hopeful', after all. Anyone who owned a TV knew who he was. That was it. That was _all_. Likely the nurse and her Chansey were just as familiar with him as the rest of Sinnoh. They'd have to be, what with the TV constantly blaring from the lobby. It was, he noticed absently, tuned to the same documentary his own television back at the hotel was on. Momentarily satisfied, he inclined his head coolly in greeting, but she was already turning away, towards whatever it was she'd laid on the counter. Unbidden, his eyes flew to the thing, and all thoughts blanked completely from his mind.

Not many things could surprise Paul. Therefore, it was testament to his control that his face remained neutral at the sight of the Pokémon.

He _recognized_ it. …or _thought_ he did, anyway. Amidst the bubbled, deformed body he could barely make out what species it was even supposed to be—

Except somehow he _knew_.

It was the eyes, he guessed. The body itself was near beyond recognition but the _eyes_ were the same. There was, of course, no way it could be the same as the one he'd owned so long ago. The very idea was ridiculous, in more ways than one. But for some reason, for reasons unknown to him, the thing actually seemed _happy_ to see him. Those blue-grey eyes lit up, flame tail flaring weakly before dying down to barely a flicker.

He turned away, mind racing.

It wasn't the same Chimchar. It_ couldn't be_ the same Chimchar. Not only was _that_ Pokémon fully evolved, but it no longer even _belonged_ to him. He hadn't seen the thing in _years_.

But…

Those dead eyes had glowed when they saw him._ Just like…_

-and…it…_resembled_ his old Chimchar. Not that this necessarily _meant_ anything. Most unevolved Pokémon of the same species generally had similar physical features, after all. To the untrained eye they looked the same.

But this one…it was clearly in horrible condition. Whatever had happened to it, whatever it had gotten itself into, it was blatantly obvious to Paul that it wouldn't survive. It was already beyond saving. The smell of death clung to it, a sickly mixture of rotted blood and decay that made him queasy. And something else. Something that reminded him vaguely of sulfur dioxide. The same something that had hung in the air around him when he'd first awoken. The same something that clung to his soiled and sweat dampened cloths before he'd flung them over the side of the tub to dry—

It could have been the boils, he reasoned, glancing back at the thing on the counter. They looked like they were still oozing…_something_. He wrinkled his nose. It had been burned. _Badly_. In fact, 'badly' was putting it mildly. It looked like it had been hit with a Flamethrower and then dowsed in molten lava. And then _acid_.

His face twisted.

_A fire type dying of burns…laughable. _

Except that there was nothing even remotely funny about it. That it had even managed to survive _this_ long was surprising. What sort of battle had it been in to be in such a condition? Obviously a prolonged one, but which Pokémon breed had the power to leave its opponent with such wounds?

If the Joy noticed anything in his expression, she didn't comment, choosing instead to focus her attention on the little flame monkey. She hummed quietly as she worked, misting its body over with spray, dabbing at the running boils, speaking softly to it. He watched silently, growing increasingly disturbed as the woman continued. But when she moved to drop a pill down the Pokémon's throat, he intervened.

"Why are you _doing_ that?" Her movements stilled, frozen as if by time, and she turned to him slowly.

"…doing what?" The question seemed innocent enough, but her casual response seemed guarded. He didn't even try to keep the distain from his voice.

"…wasting your time? Wasting _medicine_?" She stiffened, and his suspicions were confirmed. Worse still was that she probably expected _him_ to pay for all this, he thought darkly, even though it wasn't his to begin with. And with the shape it was currently in, whatever treatment she'd given it thus far wasn't going to come cheap. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead crossing his arms and glaring pointedly at the broken creature behind her.

"It's _dying_, isn't it? Why bother?" She didn't answer, turning instead back to the little monkey.

"Please don't talk like that in front of Chimchar." This was whispered, and if he hadn't been standing so near, he probably wouldn't have heard at all. He scowled.

"You failed to mention its '_condition'_ over the phone."

This time she threw him a helpless look, eyes filling with tears.

"You don't have to sound so blasé about it! How can you be so cruel? I thought it'd be better for Chimchar to spend its last remaining hours with its owner and…" her voice wavered, "I didn't want to alarm you over the phone." She drew a shaky breath. "Some people get…distraught when they hear news that way, and you were...I mean…you…_you were_…" she seemed to struggle with her words. "…don't you care about your Pokémon at all?"

He paused, considering. The nurse had turned her attention back to the monkey and was now fussing over what was left of its skin. She was humming that tune again, but it seemed forced. No doubt she was one of those tree-hugging new agers. The ones who protested Pokémon battling and ownership and who labeled Trainers, Breeders and Coordinators as 'cruel and inhumane'. They were a pain, and lately they'd been popping up everywhere. Like _daisies_ or something. Things once considered legal not even five years ago could have a person's license stripped away today.

"It's not mine." The humming stopped.

"…what?"

The little monkey's eyes dimmed.

"I _said_ it's _._"

"You_…_how _DARE _you?" This time the woman turned on him in a flurry of anger. He'd never seen any of the nurses display emotion besides concern, but this one, _this_ one was truly furious.

"You bring your Pokémon here, half…_half dead…" _she closed her eyes, fighting for composure. "..and now..._now you'll just_.." the tears spilled over, and Paul found himself looking away.

"People like you shouldn't even be allowed to _own_ Pokémon! Chimchar wasn't in any condition to battle in the first place!"

"Not my problem," he said curtly, and turned to go. It had been a waste coming here, and now on top of everything else the dull throbbing at the back of his head was escalating into a full-fledged ache. The very edges of his vision were growing yellowed and dim. He wondered briefly if he was concussed.

"Your Chimchar's been in suspension for over eight years," she continued evenly, as though he hadn't spoken, as though he _wasn't_ walking away. "Eight years without ever being pulled or even _exercised_. It was in no shape to battle in such condition, yet you chose to use it anyway. And then three days ago you bring it here barely _alive_-"

_Wait...what_?!

He stopped.

"What did you say?"

He turned slowly, eyes sliding past the teary eyed, red-faced nurse to the mangled thing that lay on the countertop. And for the first time since he'd been there, he looked at the monkey. _Really_ looked at it. Looked at the vacant stare in its wide Prussian eyes already glazing over with death, at the barely-there flame probably seconds away from extinguishing, noticed the labored, rattling breath, the melted, waxy skin, the boils and pus and- _and- _

His head began to pound, and all at once he felt that tingling in his skin, the itching burn, and it was suddenly hard to breath. The air around him turned thick and smoky, burning his eyes, clogging his throat. Dimly, faintly, he was aware of a voice speaking to him. The nurse. Her tirade forgotten, she was suddenly her normal nurturing self concerned over a potential patient. He swatted her hands away, staring again at the monkey.

A battle. A major one, from the looks of it. Considering – _briefly_ - that the nurse spoke the truth, then the monkey had been brought in three days ago by…by _someone_… fresh _from_ a battle and it _still_ looked bad, was on the very verge of death, even after nearly half a week hospitalized.

What the hell was going on?

"Are you alright?" her voice brought him out of his stupor, and he straightened, staring at her, staring _through_ her.

"…don't look so good yourself, sir." Her hands fluttered near his forehead but dropped at his pointed glare. "I'm not sure you should even be-"

"I'm _fine_," he spat, spinning on his heels. The place was suffocating him. The florescent lights, the sight of the Chimchar, the smell of burning, rotting flesh and flowers...of _death_. He had to get out, he needed air. Even the suffocatingly floral scent of the town wasn't enough to stop him from gulping in lungfuls of perfumed air, from collapsing, weak and nauseous, against the brick wall of the Pokécenter.

His head ached. Mostly from the split in the back of his head, but even without the throbbing it brought he would have still had a migraine. He needed to get out of this town. _Fast_. That nurses were now claiming to see him…? Claiming to _recognize_ him? It was too much. It didn't matter that he himself- if his dead dex were any indication- had been out like a light for _at least_ three days. It didn't matter that his skin was peeling and sunburned, that his memory was in shambles-

And his cloths? It was just coincidence that they smelled of smoke, that he'd obviously been involved in some sort of fire based attack. _Like the Chimchar_. He didn't _have_ a Chimchar. And while he didn't deny the fact that he'd very likely been at in the tail end of some random Pokémon attack, _a fire_ _based attack_, the two events were not correlated. He hadn't been with a Chimchar…_that_ Chimchar when whatever happened to him happened.

_If_ it happened.

Whatever 'it' was.

He leaned back and shut his eyes in an effort to calm his racing thoughts.

He could very well be under a Hypnosis. It had occurred to him briefly while showering. The Pokémon using it could make its opponent believe they were walking on air while simultaneously beating the living shit out of them. Numerous Pokémon knew the attack. He could have run across any number of them in his travels, but… hallucinations usually didn't last _this_ long, did they? Not on a _human_, anyway. Although _admittedly_ his perception of time at the moment was skewed. And of course, _knowing_ you were being hit with the attack lessened its effectiveness to a degree. Hypnosis used elements from the victim's mind; this, factored in with his height and weight would probably affect the strength of the attack. But that wouldn't matter if the Pokémon were particularly experienced, he reasoned.

…even so, he highly doubted a Pokémon would be able to stage a hallucination _this_ complex. Especially not a _wild_ Pokémon with no real experience in human interaction. A breeze brushed past him, stirring his hair and making goose bumps break out over his arm.

Great.

He was back to square one. Not that he'd ever really left it in the first place. First course of action: He would go back to the hotel, get his stuff, and go. Why he was here in the first place was the million dollar question, but it seemed less than important at the moment. He needed to distance himself from that nurse. It was ridiculous, he thought angrily, especially when he had had nothing to do with the Chimchar or its condition, but the nurse seemed dead set on the Chimchar being his, and with it all but dead and his dex a glitchy mess there would be no immediate way of contesting this. Nurses had the authority to have a trainer's license revoked. If she decided to press the issue…if she thought he was being _inhumane_…

And he without his memory. They would ask questions he couldn't give _answers_ to right now-

The sound of muffled whispering tore him from his thoughts. Scowling at the intrusion, he pushed off from the wall, automatically opening his eyes and looking around.

He was alone.

Stupid kids, he thought, glaring around, fully expecting to hear their muffled laughter at any moment.

It never came. The streets were eerily silent.

_Whatever_. He needed to go, anyway. He needed to go to the Pokémart as soon as his dex recharged. He needed a cure…_something_ to stop the effects of… _whatever_ had happened to him. In fact, he wouldn't even wait for it to fully charge, he decided grimly. It should have a sufficient amount of energy by now. True, it would take twice as long to recharge if he used it now, but he would take his changes. He needed himself at one hundred percent ASAP. He wasn't used to feeling –he winced at the word—_vulnerable_. It left a sour taste in his mouth, and he scowled, casting another suspicious look around. As before, the streets were deserted, but he could still hear vague murmurs on the breeze. Children, he guessed again frowning. Probably playing around. _Stupid brats_. The wind picked up and off chance, thinking there was a storm coming, he found himself glancing up at the sky.

It was red.

Dark red. Black red. His breath caught. Something stalled in his throat. And as he stood squinting up at it, momentarily paralyzed with shock, the whispers returned full force.

But now they were closer, clearer.

He could just make out the chanting tendrils of their speech, lilting, hitched in excitement. He struggled to breath. _Not human_. Not any language he'd ever heard before.

Run.

It was his first coherent thought. But reacting to instinct in panic was not always a good idea. His right hand was moving, sliding over his shirt, resting now at the hem of his jeans.

_Run._

He felt the sudden heat of their breath, the lingering touches against his burning skin, caught sparse glimpses of gleaming eyes. The hand at his side fumbled, searching. Where was-

_Run you stupid idiot!_

Startled, he struck out, fingers catching nothing but air, body falling hard against the wall of the Pokécenter. _What the hell—?!_

His fumbling pats turned to desperation.

There were no balls. He wasn't wearing them. _He'd wasn't wea_—

He smelled it before he felt it.

Something acrid and sharp and nauseating. The smell of burning flesh. He looked down at himself, arms away from his body, ready to drop and roll like he'd been taught as a child. Except that he couldn't _see_. Even the red sky had vanished. His eyes were burning, and there was nothing but blackness. Blackness and a slow burning _pain. _

He woke suddenly, hands clawing at the damp sheets around him, choking and gasping for breath.

It was a full minute before he realized he was alone. Another before he realized that he _wasn't_ outside the Pokécenter struggling with fire and phantom voices. And he could _see_. His eyes were fine. They _hadn't_ been melted away by heat. Unconsciously, his fingers trailed along the rim of his eyes. They were swollen and tender. Had they always felt that way? He honestly had not paid attention. He was in bed, the same bed he'd awoken in before, back in the hotel room, and just as before, his body was soaked with sweat. The air was chilled around him, and the methodic hum of the air conditioner seemed at odds with the frantic racing of his pulse. Across from the bed, the television shone brightly, still tuned to that same documentary as before.

Except…

He looked down at himself. He was dressed in the same white T and jeans he'd pulled on before going to the Pokécenter. The clock on the wall read 3:47, and the window behind him was streaming sunlight into the room from a crack in the curtains. He took a moment to collect himself, trying to settle his thoughts.

He'd been dreaming.

_Again_.

The relief he felt was tangible. There was no Chimchar, no annoying nurse. No…red sky or fire or… he stopped this train of thought immediately.

He must have taken a shower, gotten dressed, and collapsed back on the bed. _Not_ _good_, considering he probably had at least a mild concussion, but it was better than the _other_ alternative.

And yet… it cemented the fact that he was probably worse off than he'd originally thought. He didn't have dreams like that. Was it possible he'd misdiagnosed himself?

Well…yes. It was possible. It was _entirely_ possible. He wasn't a doctor, but he also wasn't an _idiot_. He'd been a trainer for eight years; had been around Pokémon since before he could _walk_. There was _no way_ he'd—

He pulled himself up, wincing at the sudden pain in his limbs. He didn't remember them being particularly sore when he'd woke the first time, but then again he'd been more concerned with his lack of memory than his body. He reached over to the nightstand, grabbed the dex and flipped it open.

Fourteen percent recharged.

It wasn't much but it would have to do. He hadn't upgraded his dex now for at least two years. He was running off an older model, but it would probably hold a charge for as long as it took him to get to a Pokémart at least.

Probably. Maybe. _Hopefully_.

He needed some sort of antidote, aspirin, and something for burns. That was first on the agenda. Until he was fully healed he couldn't even trust his own instincts. He'd work on clearing up the effects of whatever attack he'd been hit with, and then he'd concentrate on getting his memory back.

He slid off the bed, staring warily around the room. Only _his_ belongings were here, and there was just one bed, but that meant nothing these days. He needed to call the front desk. If this really _was_ his room, they'd have his registration and check-in information. And if it wasn't…well, then they'd have _somebody's_ information on file, not that he'd be privy to it.

They'd also wonder what he was doing here, in their hotel, in a room that didn't belong to him. He sighed. Maybe calling wasn't such a good idea at this point. It might have been easier if he'd woken up in a Pokécenter somewhere, but he avoided sleeping in them lately. When trainers found out he was staying at a local center, they never left him alone. As a result he'd taken to booking hotels. They were more expensive, but his privacy, he reasoned, was worth it in the long run.

After he splashing his face with water, (while very carefully avoiding the face in the mirror) he unplugged his dex. It beeped and powered on. He was half-way tempted to go searching again, to scroll through the files, to _investigate_ the supposed 'sighting', but that would have to wait. Simply loading the screen ate up precious energy, and he only had about twenty minutes or so to get everything done before his dex died again. There was however, one thing he _had_ to do. One thing he'd neglected to do, or at least did not remember doing in the dream. Before leaving the room he needed to test the lock on the door. If it unlocked after scanning the eye of the dex, if it _recognized_ his dex, then it was likely his room. If not—

The door clicked open, and Paul was left with a heavy feeling of apprehension.

oOo

He was struck with déjà vu walking through the town.

At least there were people out this time, he thought, glaring as a child riding a bike steered precariously close to him. Their eyes didn't go through him; rather, they avoided him completely. He looked a mess, he knew. Like hell warmed over. But for a town supposedly renowned for their hospitality, they were acting decidedly cold. More disturbing was the amount of detail he'd managed to pick up. _From a dream_. Like the little yellow house on the corner with the pink azaleas. Or the cherry trees and Bradford pears that dotted the streets. Was it possible he'd picked up these particulars before? He wasn't naïve enough to believe he'd come across them via _dream_; he had, after all, passed through the place a couple of times as a kid, and each time he'd gone through here it had always been spring. Just like now. His brain had probably filed away the details of the town. It could explain why he was remembering things so vividly.

Still, he couldn't shake the unease, the burning disquiet that ran through his gut.

He could smell rain on the air. The sun was, once again, obscured by thick grey clouds. It made strange shadows in the sparse afternoon light, made his body tense. But he trudged resolutely forward, defiantly stepping into every patch of shade he came across, ignoring the sudden chills that ran through him.

_I'm cold_. That was it. He was just cold, and deliberately stepping out of the sun to stomp in the shade wasn't helping. It was…childish, actually. So he stopped. He had yet to find his jacket and the early spring weather still had a biting chill to it. There was no reason to court sickness by leaving the sun's view. He made a mental note to purchase a fleece while he was out.

The Pokémart too was deserted when he arrived. The lone attendant, a burly old man whose attention was engrossed in a small television set behind the counter barely seemed to notice he'd entered. A scruffy looking Glameowsat curled at the man's feet, giving Paul a lazy, one-eyed stare before closing its eye.

Perusing the aisles, he felt like he was eleven years old again. He hadn't been on _this_ aisle for _years_. Antidotes and tonics for humans were very different than the kinds used for Pokémon recovery. It took him a while to decide on his symptoms, and even then he was unsure of the dosage. How would it affect him? The description said _may cause drowsiness_, but that usually depended on the dosage and the tolerance of the user. If he was indeed concussed, it'd be suicide to fall asleep, but the thought of seeing a doctor, of being in this town any longer than he had to be, was even more unpleasant. And he'd already been asleep for several hours with no problem… Unconsciously, his grip tightened on the box.

On his way to the counter, he stopped to pick out a fleece. It was a novelty; black with the Floaroma town motto emblazed on the front and priced way more than it was actually worth. Despite his success as a Trainer, keeping Pokémon was in itself expensive and he disliked throwing money around. For the price they were asking he could easily have bought _two_ jackets in a style he actually _liked_ elsewhere. Regardless, he didn't have a choice, so he grit his teeth and flung it over his shoulder. Passing a display of bug repellant, he grabbed a can. He hadn't remembered seeing any in his knapsack earlier, which was odd, but maybe he'd simply run out.

Next were hats. They had a decent sized selection, but they all looked so…so.._ugh_. Like something a _kid_ or a _tourist_ would wear. He grimaced, reluctantly deciding on a hideously bright periwinkle blue. It clashed with the fleece he'd selected and the color itself would likely draw more attention with than without. _God_ he felt like such a _dork_. He slid the hat on, suppressing a shudder and tilting it low over his eyes. With any luck, no one would recognize him. It was so glaringly atrocious and gaudy that no one in their right mind would _willingly_ consent to wear such a thing, especially not _him_. At least, that's the line of thought he hoped most people would think.

At the counter, the man, much to his annoyance, took his time glancing up. He seemed to have trouble tearing his eyes from the television.

"Never seen you here before. Passing through?" He had a raspy voice and a wooly beard. The nametag on his jacket read 'Don'.

"Yeah," he answered shortly. He was in no mood to conversate, but was suddenly struck by a thought. "Is something going on?"

The man looked up from bagging his things. His brow was furrowed. "Y'musta been living under a rock not to have heard. I hear you trainer types like to live out in the wilderness for months on end, but _geez_." Paul resisted the urge to scowl. He might spend 'months on end' in the 'wilderness' but at least he didn't _look_ it. Thankfully the man continued on, voice lowering to a stage whisper.

"They're sayin' some kinda meteorite hit. From _outer space_. Crashed into Verity Lake. Everybody wondered at first if it had something to do with _them_." He nodded his head, satisfied that he'd made his point…as though it were immediately obvious who 'them' was. Paul stared. The man, seeming to realize he was losing him, hurried on.

"You know. _Them_. Since _they_ blew up that lake those years ago…" Oh. He was talking about Team Galactic, then. He was well aware of Galactic and the Lake Valor incident, but failed to see the significance _here_.

"What's the big deal, then?" Paul asked, glancing towards the glass doors. Were they the only ones inside? He thought he'd heard someone come in; the papers on the magazine rack were still drifting from an unseen breeze. The lazy Glameow was sitting up, staring at something behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing. "It's not the first time a meteorite's hit this region," he continued, shoulders relaxing. It was true. Sinnoh was peppered with craters. Most of the springs and lakes were the result of landings. The man looked at him as though he were dense.

"It crashed into Verity Lake…and dried the whole thing up. Nothing there now but a four mile crater."

_Oh_. Well then. That _would_ be a big deal, he guessed. Not that it explained why people in Floaroma town would be affected; they weren't all that close to Verity Lake in the first place.

"Everything within a four mile radius was destroyed. Animals, trees, the like. But get this…" he leaned in close, so close that Paul could smell the chewing tobacco sour on his breath. "They can't seem to find the meteorite at all."

Paul scowled. This was the problem with getting second hand info. Especially from _older_ people. They always tended to dramatize. He disliked hearing stories. He wanted cold hard _facts_.

"And where would a meteorite that size go?" he asked, unable to keep the patronizing tone from his voice. The man shrugged, tugging on his beard, oblivious to his tone.

"Don't really know if it _is_ a meteorite."

Paul glared.

"You just _said_ it was_._"

"Yep. Said that."

"But now you don't know…?"

"…nope."

It was his own fault, he reasoned. He didn't usually waste time talking to people, especially not people as stupid as this man obviously was. He scanned his dex, noting he only had 11 units of energy left. And he still needed to make a stop somewhere for food. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, though he wasn't all that hungry. If he hurried he could make a quick stop and get back to the hotel before the energy ran out completely.

"…nope. Don't think it was a meteorite at all." He ignored the man. He was looking for an audience—

old timers always were— trying to lure him into asking a question he had no intention of asking. Flipping the dex shut, he grabbed the bag wordlessly, rolling it up and shoving it under his arm.

It was then that he noticed the newspaper.

Then man had gone silent; probably realizing he wasn't going to get the reaction he'd been hoping for. But then suddenly he spoke.

"Hey…ain't you that big shot trainer from TV? That kid from Veilstone?"

"No," Paul lied.

"Oh…" this seemed to satisfy him. He trailed off, though Paul could feel him studying him, mapping out his features to the ones in his memory. "Well, you look sorta like him," the man continued finally. "I actually think you might be taller than him. He's a short little fellow." Paul bristled internally. "Don't really like 'im myself. Got no stage presence if you ask me. Only got two expressions. Angry and more angry. And _angrier_. I guess that's three expressions, huh?" he laughed at his joke, and Paul frowned into the newspaper.

"My grandkid's in love with the guy," the man persisted, ever oblivious. "Has all the posters, magazine articles, records all the matches she sees on TV. Don't see the appeal to him, personally." He swiped a thumb across his nose. "Seems kinda fulla 'imself. Back in my day you learned to respect your Pokémon." he noticed Paul eyeing the paper. "Hey, you gonna buy that, son?"

Disgusted, Paul dropped the daily, wordlessly exiting the store.

The jeweled eyes of the Glameow followed him out.

oOo

I have to apologize for taking so long with this chapter! It was actually supposed to be out _months_ ago, but I ended up reworking it. _A lot_. This version has at least SOME semblance to what I'd originally envisioned. I was actually going to split it up, (because it seemed to run way too long) but since I'd taken like, 5 months to post it, I figured a longer chapter would be better. As always, thanks to all of you who reviewed! **Fire spirit**, **SecretAgent999**, **I hate paul!!!**, **RC_84**, **Wassermagierin**, **Yukira Hakumei**, **Jordan-Daniel**, and **Rei Rei 97**. Your thoughts and reviews are always very much appreciated! Thanks also to you lurkers out there who may not review, but who still read and keep up with this thing. ^^

Please note that I am taking NUMEROUS liberties with the Pokémon world. This is obviously an AU, though I'm trying not to diverge TOO far from canon. Speaking of canon…

Pokémon DP has, ultimately turned out to be a total disappointment to me. And it's not even over! With the richness of the myths of that region, there was SO much the writers could have done and they just… HAVEN'T. It actually seems like Ash and the others have DE-evolved and forgotten everything they learned from the first few seasons. (or maybe it's just the new voices?) I dunno. I've actually been hoping that the writers make DP 132 Paul's last appearance. I love the guy, but I want him to go out on top (like he did in that epi) rather than the writers attempt some half-baked attempt to 'redeem' him.

Anyways, I'd love to hear your thoughts.


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